Page 47 of Lord of Fire and Ice

Brandr Ulfson is my thrall. Nothing more.

“Since you brought up the matter of the wealth you wear, I have to admit it seems a bit excessive,” Katla said between dainty bites of pork and barley bread. “More than most men might dare.”

“Ja, I ring my neck with gold to tempt some young fellow to try to take it from me.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

Sturlson shrugged. “I’m an old man, Katla. You think I do not know it? I don’t want to end my days wallowing in my own piss. Why should I wait for a straw death?”

The prospect of dying in bed of extreme age or disease was an end any man worth the name would shrink from. Inviting a fight was an ingenious way to avoid it.

Otto Sturlson’s cleverness ticked up a notch in Brandr’s estimation.

“Has anyone ever tried to take your gold?” Katla asked.

“Ja, but so far, I have kept my head and my wealth.” He fingered one of the gold chains at his throat. “It does me good to know I still deserve them.”

She laughed lightly at his wit.

“Of course, a beautiful young wife can be the death of an old man too.” Otto leaned toward Katla with a leer. “That kind of a straw death I wouldn’t mind at all.”

Even though Brandr knew he was nothing to Katla but a means to scratch an itch, he narrowly resisted offering to help Sturlson avoid dying in bed.

He knew Katla wouldn’t appreciate it. Thralls should be seen but not heard.

Chapter 16

Malvar Bloodaxe sniffed the wind that was blowing clear and briny from the narrow sea. The voices of the Old Ones muttered in lugubrious whispers, but he pushed them to a small corner of his mind.

The time wasn’t quite right yet.

He would have one chance, one cast of the die to make his plan work. If he lost patience and threw too soon, he might wreck all.

He climbed to the top of the grassy howe and faced East. From Orkney, it wasn’t so far a sail to his ultimate goal. With half-closed eyes, he fancied he could see the broad, gaping entrance to Hardanger Fjord. Like a whore with her legs wide spread, the rich land beckoned him to come and claim it.

A flash of the vision he’d had last night seared his mind once more. He could smell the blood and smoke of carnage, hear the screams of the dying.

The Old Ones whimpered softly, their sighs half-covered by the waving sibilance of the tall grass. It had been so long since freshly spilled blood had nourished the earth, since fire had darkened the sky, since death had ridden on the water with the cold breath of Hel in its sails.

The world has become too civilized, Malvar thought with a curl of his lip. The ancient spirits were starving for lack of a proper sacrifice.

“Soon,” he promised the whisperers.

At least the Old Ones there on Orkney had been given a taste of fresh blood, albeit in droplets instead of the rivers of gore they craved. They’d been praised in daily shrieks of pain, but Malvar knew it was never enough for them. They were like a ram in rut who can’t find a ewe. An empty belly with no meal in sight. A barren womb.

The Old Ones’ need was never completely filled.

But Malvar’s work was about to bring forth fruit. Ulf Skallagrimsson was near to cracking. Malvar had enjoyed toying with him. The jarl’s resistance to pain was impressive but not perfect. Ulf wailed like a woman when properly motivated.

Now it was time to raise the stakes.

This morning Malvar would threaten to take his manhood. A man will say anything to save that bit of skin. Malvar had avoided resorting to it, because the real trick would be in assuring himself that what Ulf said to save his balls was true.

Each day he hoped for a message from Gormson. He desperately needed that staging area on Tysnes to launch his campaign of cleansing death into the fjord.

If his ally couldn’t marry into that sweet, sheltered cove, then by the ancient powers, he’d damn well better find another way to claim it.

Chapter 17